


On Things That Matter Most

by LisKin



Category: Chernobyl (TV 2019)
Genre: Angst, Awkward Boners, Awkward Kissing, Legasov's cat, M/M, Masturbation, Reading Poetry - Freeform, Shcherbina says 'fuck' a lot, Slash, Some UST (okay maybe more UST!), Some domestic fluff (kind of) to give everybody a break from angst, dirty songs, drinking vodka
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2020-05-18 15:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19336903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LisKin/pseuds/LisKin
Summary: As Deputy Chairman Boris Shcherbina lulls Valery Legasov to sleep before his speech in Vienna, he remembers all of it: the fright, the heat, the sass, the fight, the want, and, most importantly, the life.





	1. Everything That Came Later

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, the characters are purely fictional and belong to the wonderful people who created the Chernobyl mini-series (and to all of the fandom, of course). No disrespect to the real people is meant, and I draw a rather thick line between life and fiction. 
> 
> As this work is based on the mini-series so I'm following their timeline and their version of the events. Thus, Legasov delivers his report in Vienna in 1987, shortly before the trial in Chernobyl. 
> 
> English is not my native language. Should you feel like it, feel free to point out my mistakes (in a gentle and loving manner, if you please:) ). 
> 
> There will be notes at the end of each chapter with references and, should the need arise, explanations.

**Vienna, March 1987**  
  
  
As the night is closing in, Legasov curls up on the bed, head resting on Shcherbina's lap. Boris can't force back the thought: here is the most talked-about and listened-to scientist in the whole of Europe at the moment – hell, in the whole world, perhaps? He doesn't look the part – lying in a child's pose, knees pressed to his chest. None of the sass that used to erupt no matter when and where, be it the disaster site or the Kremlin halls. None of the composure that he has been keeping for days under the pressure of the foreign press, the scientific community, and their own comrades from the Soviet delegation. The man whose name rhymes with the name of their Motherland in the eyes of the world is now but a ball of tired flesh. Exhausted. Deflated. Just like that one time, almost a year ago.

  
It happened after Khomyuk's arrest – or, rather, after the twenty four hours that spread like too little butter over too much bread: the nude miners, the sleepless hours of the morning in the helicopter on their way Moscow, Legasov's stand-off with Charkov and hours of waiting at the Butyrka prison for Khomyuk to be released. As the copter was taking them back to Pripyat – no military escort this time, just the two of them in the cabin sitting next to each other, - Legasov loosened the knot of his tie and threw his head back and to the side, almost to touch Shcherbina's shoulder. He turned slightly to meet the Deputy Chairman's careful gaze.

  
Shcherbina raised his eyebrows slightly – a silent _'What?'_. Legasov pursed his lips and shook his head – _'Nothing'_. Or, rather, everything – too much of everything. Boris shifted, half-turning towards the younger man, and smacked himself once on the laps – _'Come on'._ Legasov's turn to raise eyebrows – _'Seriously?'_. Shcherbina's short nod – _'Now'._

  
And then there was Valery sinking down, nestling on Boris' lap, hands put together and under his cheek, an unseemly pose for the men of that age and that stature – not that Chernobyl leaves much room for seemliness. To hell with seemliness, to hell with age and stature. Shcherbina hesitantly raised his arm and then touched the other man's head, noticing how soft his hair feels. The strokes were light, the man's breath was heavy, but time passed and it changed. As Boris' touches grew longer, Valery's breathing became lighter, steadier.

  
“Valera”, Shcherbina called as the copter started to descend. No answer. Boris shook him by the shoulder ever so slightly. The scientist let out a tiny sigh as he rolled a little and opened the eyes, now looking directly into the Deputy Chairman's face.

  
“Five more minutes?”

  
“What am I, your mother waking you up for school?” Shcherbina snapped, all gentleness leaving him at once. “We're here. Time's up”.

  
“Time is always up these days”, Legasov said, raising back to seated and massaging his numb neck. “Always will be”.

  
He was right, of course, and yet there were rare precious times, capsuled and closed off when it felt like the rest of the world ceased to exist and they were granted blissful rest in the middle of neverwhere. Time like this, when the curtains in the hotel room can easily cut them off from the foreign city buzzing outside, from yesterday snapping at their heels and tomorrow rattling in the distance with a promise of more people, more questions, more lies. Legasov, with his nimble brain and nimble tongue, is extra careful with his words these days. His words weigh a ton. His sentences broken into pieces by heavy pauses. Interpreters follow him everywhere, and yet, even though he speaks Russian, it sounds as if he is mastering a foreign tongue. But he is, Shcherbina thinks, and it is the tongue of statehood. It is a tiring language, so when not in public, Legasov mostly keeps quiet.

  
Shcherbina's hand is more confident this time as he raises it and strokes Valery's hair just like he did back in the copter. The hair is still soft, yet thinning, and Boris can't help but notice when a strand pulls away. Ah. So that's it. Does Legasov notice, he wonders. His own cough is not so bad yet, he is able to hold it back most of the times and he is almost used to metallic taste in his mouth when he does so.

  
No, he would not think about that. Not now.

  
The city noises are barely audible through the closed window. The clock is ticking away the night. The warmth is spreading through Shcherbina's lap where Legasov's cheek is. The softness of another man's hair is soothing, and Boris mastered his strokes so that no more strands are pulled away. Tick-tock. Tick-tock.

  
He is beginning to doze off when he hears something. A rustle. A murmur. Did he, perhaps, dream it?

  
“What was that?”

  
A beat.

  
“Valera... did you just say something?”

  
Legasov's voice is hoarse as he repeats louder:

  
  
“ _I was killed near Rzhev_

_In a nameless bog,_

_In fifth company,_

_On the left flank,_

_In a cruel air raid._

 

_I didn’t hear explosions_

_And did not see the flash_

_Down to an abyss from a cliff_

_No start, no end_

 

_And in this whole world_

_To the end of its days -_

_Neither patches, nor badges_

_From my tunic you’ll find_ ”(*)  
  
  
He thought he had grown to know the man through and through, and yet Legasov surprises him one more time. Who would have thought that he is a poetry man. And yet here he is, rhythmically reciting a poem as if chanting a spell.

  
  
“ _Even the dead and voiceless_

_Have one last single joy_

_We have fallen for the Motherland_

_But it’s finally saved._

 

_Our eyes have faded_

_Out is the flame of our hearts_

_And up there, at roll calls_

_They are not calling us_ ”.

 

Legasov stops half-way. His body tenses. Boris waits. Valery keeps silent. Boris gives him a mild nudge.

  
  
“Well then?” he says. And when Legasov gives no answer, Shcherbina continues, “ _And no one of the living_...”

  
  
“ _And no one of the living_

 _Is indebted to us_ ,

  
  
\- Legasov catches up.

  
  
_Those, who took up the colours_

 _From us on the run..._ ”

  
  
But the voice is fading as if a river is drying up, as if there is no more fuel to run the voice, to make the words flow.

  
“I dropped out of my studies, you know, when it all began”, says Shcherbina. “Before the Great Patriotic war even”.

“The Winter War?”(*)

“M-hm. Didn't graduate till 1942”.

“Well, you had graduated before I even went to school. A funny thought, come to think of it”.

“What, me being a more learned man?” Shcherbina chuckles. “Mind your tone, Comrade Legasov, this sounds like an offense to a party official”.

  
Legasov does not pick up the light-hearted tone. Instead, he keeps silent for a while and then says:

  
“It was turned into a hospital during the war years. My school. Tending to the wounded and the dying. The whole graduation class along with the classroom teacher and the headmaster went off at the front. Twenty-nine people. Seven came back”.

  
Shcherbina knows where this is going. He knows why forty years later Academician Legasov is lying on the bed in some Austrian hotel room and thinking about the lost boys he barely knew. He cuts Valery off.

 

“Time for bed”.

  
“I'm not sleeping these days”, Legasov says.

  
“Nevertheless”.

  
“I'm...”

  
“Bed. Now”.

  
Just like back in the helicopter, Valery gets up and stretches his neck. His shoes are by the bed, and he tries to put his feet inside without actually bending to at least untie them, as if they were home slippers, with little success. Shcherbina silently watches his fight. One shoe is more or less on, the other one keeps moving a bit further as Legasov nudges it with his foot. 'The most talked-about and listened-to scientist in the whole of Europe, I'd be damned', Shcherbina thinks.

  
“ _Professor_ Legasov. Bed, singular”.

  
Valery pauses, leaving alone the damned shoe.

  
“Not beds?”

  
For the first time throughout these endlessly dragging days, Boris hears a speck of life in the other man's voice. He slowly nods.

  
The light is off now. Still dressed, they lie face to face, and Shcherbina can slowly make out the other man's silhouette. Legasov is still looking childish, with his hand under his cheek.

  
There is nothing more to do than just lie there. Not because they are exhausted with the Vienna ordeal (which they are). It's not about sleepless nights and tiring meetings – at least, not only about them. Their bodies are failing them on a different level, way beyond mere physical exhaustion. Something inside is sprouting, spreading into every cell, every atom of their being, sucking the dear life out of them, leaving them more listless day by day. All their passion, all the energy, and vitality seem to be left in the exclusion zone, just like the personal belongings in the left-behind apartments after the evacuation.

  
Valery turns, and Boris moves nearer, his broad chest against the other man's back, almost spooning. He can feel Valery's body moving along with his breath. Boris places his hand on the other man's shoulder. He is not much of a gentle toucher but he learned to be one with Legasov over the course of the last year – perhaps, one of the most surprising lessons of Chernobyl. In the darkness, Valery reaches and squeezes Boris' hand. The words escape Shcherbina's mouth without his will:

  
“ _I know, it is no fault of mine_

_That others didn't return from the war._

_That all of them – the younger and the older -_

_Were left behind._

_And it is not the point_

_That I could have them saved but failed to do that._

_That's not the point.._.”

  
“ _And yet, and yet, and yet_ ”(*), Valery finishes in a barely audible murmur. The squeeze becomes tighter and hotter and does not end even when his breath becomes deep and steady as he drifts off to sleep. Shcherbina lies wide awake, bits of the poem spiral in his head, vocalized by Legasov's voice.

  
'... _Down to an abyss from a cliff_

_No start, no end_

_And in this whole world_

_To the end of its days -_

_Neither patches, nor badges_

_From my tunic you’ll find_ '.

  
Shcherbina moves closer, pressing himself into Valery's back, sucking in the steady warmth of his body.

  
' _Everything that came later_

 _Was taken by the death_ '.

  
“Fuck it” Boris says under his breath. “Fuck it”.

  
In his sleep, Legasov squeezes his hand even tighter.

 


	2. Even a Thousand Gamma Rays

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Deputy Chairman Shcherbina tries to come to terms with the effect Chernobyl will have on his life, he discovers that rage is the best remedy. Well, rage and, perhaps, something else.
> 
> "Of everything that infuriates Shcherbina, Legasov is the worst – or, should he say, the best? 
> 
> It is as if they made an unvoiced pact to set each other off as soon as they end up in the same room – which happens a lot these days. 
> 
> 'Give me a reason, just give me a fucking reason...', Shcherbina thinks, and Legasov is ready to oblige, as if he reads the Deputy Chairman's' mind. He merely opens his mouth, and Shcherbina already begins to feel the familiar surge rising inside. 
> 
> Both of them erupt in no time. They argue. They yell. The bang their fists on the table. 
> 
> Fuck, that feels good".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, the characters are a work of fiction, as is the whole narrative. 
> 
> Some of the details are taken from Svetlana Alexievich's stunning book, "Voices From Chernobyl". That includes the jokes and one of the chastushkas ('...even one thousand gamma rays'), the other two were taken from the open sources. 
> 
> Some references are given at the end of the chapter.

**Chernobyl, April-May 1986**

 

“I've seen many arrogant opinionated pricks like you”, Shcherbina grunts, his voice like a rotor running at low speed, as the pilot turns the helicopter around, away from the smoking building of the nuclear plant.

  
He darts an ice-cold gaze at Legasov – _go ahead, ask me what happened to them, I dare you_.

  
Legasov doesn't ask. Men of science are supposed to be men of questions but this one... This one is a loud-mouth full of answers that just slip off his tongue. It is a miracle that this tongue of his didn't get him fired – imprisoned even or banned from the scientific community.

  
Oh, yes, Deputy Chairman Shcherbina has seen men like him. Confident men. Cocky men. Men whipping up hysteria and stirring up controversy. Men who were dead confident in their truth and eager to press upon it. Valery Legasov is but one of the men whose names Shcherbina can't even remember. All of them thought themselves fucking heroes.

  
Legasov, too, must think himself a fucking hero, trying to embarrass a Party official so many times in a row. First, in front of the Committee. Now, in front of the helicopter crew. Next, in front of Pikalov, questioning his authority, his awareness, and his expertise. Shcherbina does not like his authority being questioned, not one bit.

  
And yet, the worst is when Legasov embarrasses Shcherbina in front of himself.

  
It's not what he says – _'We'll be dead in five years'_. It's what he does next, taking a step towards the older man, muttering apologies while shooting a commiserative look at him. It's the fact that he sees Shcherbina gutted and smashed by the horrible truth of it. If there is one thing more unforgivable than questioning the authority of a Party member, it is watching a Party member succumb to the merciless reality: their stature and public position turn to mold when it comes to death.

  
For almost fifty years has Deputy Chairman Shcherbina done his best to matter. It was neither a vanity thing nor dreams of eternal glory but sheer practicality. He knew all too well: it is the men that matter whom the State allows to partake in privileges and benefits. A nice personal apartment. A speedy car. Fancy clothes. Holiday vouchers. Good food. Good vodka. A good life – long life. Boris Shcherbina, now sixty-seven, was expecting another fifteen, maybe twenty years of a good life, with all the governmental medical facilities and health retreats at his service. But Legasov says five, and it doesn't take a nuclear physicist to guess that those would not be the fat safe years that the Deputy Chairman was hoping for.

  
“The atom grants no favors”, Legasov says under his breath as they stand on the rooftop and watch people being hoarded into the buses.

  
Shcherbina knows what he means: the mighty colossus of the Soviet hierarchy is faltering, its feet turning to clay. When the gamma rays pierce you through, they do not care how far up the social ladder have you climbed. Whether you are an engineer, a street cleaner or an Ispolkom(*) official, you end up sitting in the same bus on the way to the rest of your very much shortened life.

  
Shcherbina would rather be anywhere else but on that roof. He would rather be barking orders, signing papers, making phone calls, procuring things, being willful and resourceful, just not watching those people leave and wondering about their fate – about his fate. Soon he can't make himself watch any longer. Deputy Chairman turns his back on the city and fixes his eyes at the grey vastness that is the sky.

  
He keeps thinking about that sky for the rest of the night and most of the morning. He struggles to hear Legasov talk of a radiological survey or the woman – Khomyuk, is it? - say something about the tanks. He struggles to hear what Gorbachev says at yet another opening of the Committee's meeting. Instead, Shcherbina keeps seeing that sky and thinking of an old story, a piece of Soviet folklore: when Yuri Gagarin returned to the Earth, he was asked whether he had seen God up there. He said no, of course. The sky over Pripyat was a godless dome over an abandoned city. This fucking Kremlin room is a godless dome over an abandoned man.

  
Oh, he is not abandoned right now. They will provide him with everything: men, equipment, supplies – but it is only as long as they need him to shovel the shit away. Shcherbina knows all too well the cost of reputation that this country has never hesitated to pay. He has never thought he would be a part of that cost, though. From now on, he surely matters but only as long as the factory is burning, and God knows what will come next.

  
Oh, right, there is no God.

  
He is, indeed, given everything – the state is liberal with expendables. Mobilization points are set up all around the Soviets: Moscow, Kiev, Minsk. First come soldiers, Afghanistan dust still fresh on their boots. Some come by command. Others volunteer. They are not plant employees who must be persuaded with a speech on sacrifice and suffering. These men know a different reason to be here. It is another trait that has always set this nation apart – a dark feverish drive that makes men want to pull the devil's tail because it is only when the devil turns on you and everything goes to hell, does a Russian feel genuinely free and alive.

  
The men leave for duty: doing radiological surveys, guarding outposts, shoveling debris, overseeing the evacuation of the smaller villages in the exclusion zone. They return, drink, sing, tell jokes and drink some more. They are riotous, rampant and, after a few shots, jovial – in a very macabre way. Chernobyl is hardly a place to be jovial, but it is yet another particular feature of the Russian people – they have been drinking, singing and telling jokes through the grimmest of times since the dawn of ages. The very same jokes have gotten them to GULAG and then helped them survive it.

  
The jokes are always about two subjects: policy and sex, sometimes combined. The longer they stay, the less policy and more sex comes out of their mouths. The commanding officers turn a blind eye to it, as they do to smuggled vodka.

  
“Dead men don't want to fuck”, they say.

  
A third subject emerges quickly, though: Chernobyl and its insanity. As the soldiers leave the canteen, they munch on apples:

  
“Is it safe to eat apples from Chernobyl? It is, as long as you bury the cores deep underground!”

  
“After Chernobyl you can eat anything you want, but you have to bury your shit in lead!”

  
It is the Bacchanal spirit of the doomed men doing cursed jobs that awakens something inside Shcherbina's tired soul. Rage. Raw and unruly, rage is sprouting into his limbs, stomach, chest, fueling his steps, words and actions. He, too, turns a blind eye to all the rowdy shenanigans for the time being – he needs his rage to be kindled. Any contribution counts: saucy jokes and obscene songs will do, as well as the miserable hotel room, shitty food, faked vodka, pompous voices on the phone – Ryzhkov, Gorbachev... But of everything that infuriates Shcherbina, Legasov is the worst – or, should he say, the best?

  
It is as if they made an unvoiced pact to set each other off as soon as they end up in the same room – which happens a lot these days.

  
_'Give me a reason, just give me a fucking reason...'_ , Shcherbina thinks, and Legasov is ready to oblige as if he reads the Deputy Chairman's' mind. He merely opens his mouth, and Shcherbina already begins to feel the familiar surge rising inside.

  
Both of them erupt in no time. They argue. They yell. The bang their fists on the table.

  
Fuck, that feels good.

  
“How? How did this happen?” Legasov asks, knowing all too well that it is, in fact, a rhetorical question. Ah, the matter of evacuation zone again. _'Go ahead,_ _Legasov_ ,  _give it to me'_ _._

  
The wind is strong today and, even though the site is buzzing, distant voices of the military patrols changing shift reach to their ears. Shcherbina can't hear them well but he hears enough to tell that it is a bunch of _chastushkas_ (*), as dirty as ever.

 

  
_“Reformation, reformation_ (*) _,_

_I've reformed myself as well!_

_Neighbor's big dick's my fixation,_

_I've adjoined me to its swell!”_

 

  
Anyway, comrade Legasov, you were saying?

  
“Maybe I've spent too much time in my lab. Or maybe I'm stupid. But is this really how it all works? An uninformed, arbitrary decision made by some apparatchik? Some career Party man?”

  
Shcherbina has time to snap back but their fray is interrupted. Pikalov brings an update on radiological background, and Legasov is immediately alert. Zirconium-95. The meltdown has begun. Deputy Chairman's stomach fill s with acid fear. _'No'_ , he says to himself. Not now. Not that again.

  
The wind must have changed direction because the next song from the military camps sounds louder and clearer. It is breaking the grave silence:

 

  
_“...And it's standing, swaggering._

_You and I can't get it on_

_Without drugs: it's staggering!”_ -

 

  
that brings Shcherbina back. He waives Pikalov off, catches Legasov's gaze and nods towards the mobile office – _'In. Now'_.

Legasov gets inside first, and Shcherbina follows, slamming the door behind him. The scientist turns around and waits, arms crossed and head cocked to the side, but the older man doesn't stop. He walks right at Legasov, making him take one step back, then another, and then Legasov is backing up until he is pressed into a thin metal wall, Shcherbina's imposing figure towering over him. Deputy Chairman thrusts both of his weighty fists into the wall on either side of Legasov's head and leans in so close that the words he says are nearly spit out into the other man's mouth.

  
“You know how it all works”, Shcherbina rumbles. “You have not spent too much time in your lab, and even if you have, we both know that people don't get to have a lab in the Soviet Union unless they are perfectly aware of how it works. People don't get to be the First Deputy Director of a strategically important institution unless they are perfectly aware of how it works. So don't you play the 'I'm not like that, I'm just waiting for the tram'(*) card, Legasov, not with me! You are as much of a career Party man as I am, so take off that white coat(*) of yours, do what you are told to and watch your tone as you do it!”

  
Spilling it all out sends a pleasurable tingling up his spine. He enjoys it all: a slight hurt in his knuckles, the heat of another body trapped against the wall, his own body shaking in the anticipation of the stand-off.

  
Only there is no stand-off. Legasov takes in Shcherbina's outburst calmly, looking at his mouth as he does, and, after Deputy Chairman is done, cocking up his head and looking Shcherbina in the eye. Usually by now he would have already shot something smart back but instead, he just shifts a little, as if trying to find a more comfortable position. Legasov takes a short sharp breath and then –

  
“Liquid nitrogen”.  
  
“What?” Shcherbina barks.

  
“We'll install a heat exchanger under the pad to halt the meltdown. We'll need liquid nitrogen”.

  
“How much?”

  
“All of it. We will need all the liquid nitrogen in the Soviet Union”.

  
Of course, all of it. Why would he even ask? Legasov always asks for the moon and is either naive or cheeky enough to voice it even when it's best to keep one's mouth shut. He wants Gorbachev to continue the meeting, he wants Shcherbina to evacuate half of Ukraine...

  
He can't be naive, having worked it up to the First Deputy Director position at Kurchatov. Cheeky, then. It's funny, the looks of Legasov and the word 'cheeky' don't really come together.

  
“You are something else, Legasov”, Shcherbina grunts.

  
“Oh? I thought you've seen many men like me. Many arrogant opinionated pricks”.

  
“Oh, no”, Deputy Chairman lets out a low chuckle. “There are no other arrogant opinionated pricks like you”.

  
The other man shifts again. A shadow of a smile crosses Legasov's face. His lips part but whatever he wants to say is interrupted by that distant discordant chorus of soldiers' voices breaking in through a half-opened window:

 

  
_“..._ _Even one thousand gamma rays_

 _Can’t keep the Russian cock from having its days”_.

 

  
Legasov's eyes grow a bit wider as he hears the words. He turns his head towards the window, then back to Shcherbina.

  
“Well, can you imagine?”.

  
His voice sounds amused. He looks amused. Next, Legasov ducks under Shcherbina's arm and is free from being caged between the wall and the broad chest of the Deputy Chairman.

  
As Shcherbina watches him leave, he is suddenly aware of his own body and of something unseemly happening to it. Something that has not happened in years because – let's be honest here – there has been no need for it for years: a hard-on. A hard-on so strong it almost hurts.

  
As Legasov opens the door, the voices become a touch stronger. They are singing the 'Reformation, Reformation' thing again, breaking into laughter as they do.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * - Ispolkom is an executive committee, a local center of power. 
> 
> * - chastushka is a short satirical folk poem that consists of a single quatrain. Think of it as of a Russian limerick:)
> 
> * - the original goes 'Perestroika, Perestroika' - it is a policy of political and economical reforms enforced by Gorbachev that is sometimes believed to be one of the causes for the collapse of the Soviet Union. The people, as you see, were rather sceptical of the reforms. 
> 
> * - 'I'm not like that, I'm waiting for a tram' (rus. Я не такая, я жду трамвая) is a piece of Russian folklore. Basically, the saying means 'It's not what it seems!' but ironically, stressing that it is exactly what it seems. Nobody knows the origins of the phrase but it is common to believe that it relates to the times when prostitutes were out on the streets looking for clients, and sometimes nice good girls on the tram stops could be mistaken for one - or, perhaps, they are just saying that they are the nice good girls waiting for the tram to avoid arrest? 
> 
> * - yet another Russian saying. To wear a white coat means to act in a prudish and self-righteous manner.


	3. Shut Up And Drink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They first kiss on the night the fire is out. All Boris really wants is to savor the joy of the first victory. Valery's 'Oh, but Boris, we're all going to die anyway' face doesn't help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The characters are purely fictional and belong to the wonderful people who created the Chernobyl mini-series (and to all of the fandom, of course). No disrespect to the real people is meant, and I draw a rather thick line between life and fiction.

**Chernobyl, 6-7 May, 1986**

 

They first kiss on the night the fire is out.

  
It takes Shcherbina a while to get to the mobile office, and by the time he does, he has already been through the first bottle of vodka. Outside, everyone is jubilant. Everyone wants a drink with him – or a hug, or a solid Soviet wet kiss on both cheeks, as is customary. It's a little bit like New Year's Eve, Shcherbina thinks, when mere strangers suddenly feel like nearest and dearest, and they hug you, and pat you on the back, and drink with you, and yell 'Hooray!' to the fireworks, and congratulate you with a new year to come, and wish you a new happiness to go along with it. So, he drinks with Pikalov, and the helicopter crew who delivered the last drop of sand and boron, and the military patrol on duty, and the dosimetricians...

  
There is one man he'd rather be sharing these toasts with, but Shcherbina is actually enjoying himself in the anticipation of that very drink. It sends a pleasant warmth through his stomach as he is making his way towards the lead-clad van and foretasting the moment – the way Legasov would look at him, those calf-like eyes of his lighting up with joy and lips curling a little in appreciation, _It's all going to be fine now_. The thought of it is reassuring. If Legasov thinks it's fine, it's fine.

  
The more shots Deputy Chairman Shcherbina throws back, the more palpable his excitement becomes. Warmth slowly turns into heat, reassurance into agitation, and then – arousal.

  
Since Shcherbina gave Legasov a rebuff in the very same mobile trailer he is now heading to, his body remained keenly aware of the constant immediate danger – aware in that ancient way all men are all too familiar with. He knows he is not the only one. He keeps hearing it over and over: men wondering about the single issue of whether their cock will ever be up again after they are through with Chernobyl. After all, an erection is like a stamp on your manhood papers, a proof that all is well and you are still alive. It's only natural. So, it takes Shcherbina a relatively short times to come to terms with his own body demonstrating that he is very much alive and breathing. He knows how to take care of it: a matter-of-fact quickie in the shower before going to sleep. He learned to do it without taking his mind off the pressing tasks in hand, often making a mental checklist for the day ahead, or replaying the last argument with Legasov in his mind, or planning the next one...

  
Boris Shcherbina is a practical man.

  
(Sometimes the wittiest replies come with the orgasm but mostly the thoughts leave him for a few moments as he spills over the yellowish tiles of the bathroom wall, feeling the muscles in his back relax even better than from a gulp of strong spirit).

  
When Shcherbina finally reaches the mobile office, he is already drunk and half turned-on.

  
“The fire is out!” he announces triumphantly.

  
Boris wraps his fingers around the bottleneck. A couple of firm sharp moves, and the cap is off. Shcherbina tosses it aside, and it lands on the floor with a small joyful sound.

  
“It's out, Valera!”

  
As Boris is pouring vodka into a glass, he keeps saying something about the miners, and the tunnel, and the progress, but all he really wants is to cling his glass with Legasov's and finally see it all: the eyes, the look – hell, maybe even a smile!

  
But Legasov isn't eager to partake in the merriment. He licks his lips nervously, and gives a few uncertain nods – _'Yeah, yeah'_ , - and peers into his papers, as if he hasn't heard a single word. So, Boris takes a full glass and lands it straight on Legasov's report. _'Drink. Drink, for fuck's sake'_. The gesture is sort of crude, and to soften it up a bit Shcherbina adds in a conciliatory tone:

  
“I know the job isn't over. But it's the beginning of the end”.

  
Legasov doesn't conciliate. Instead, he looks up and squints at Boris, and it's written all over his face – _'Really? Don't you know what the end will be?'_

Oh, no. Boris Shcherbina will take none of it. Not today.

  
“No”, he fires out, and enjoys Legasov giving a rather visible start.

  
“No”, he thunders as he comes around the table and approaches the other man. Valery begins to rise, and Shcherbina grabs him by the front of his jacket and pulls him up. “Let me remind you of how it works here, comrade Professor. I am in charge. I am your superior. I take my orders from the General Secretary. You take your orders from me. The order is...”

  
Deputy Chairman Shcherbina takes the glass with one hand, grabs Legasov's wrist with another one, rudely, and forces the glass into his palm.

  
“The order is to take that huge stick out of your arse and drink. Is it too much to ask?”

  
They have been stuck here for nearly two weeks with no tangible progress to report, spiraling into despair as their fruitless actions seem to bring nothing but the prospect of death for everyone involved. Finally, something happened. Finally, a victory, however small. A bit of joy here and now that Shcherbina intended to have as long as it lasts – doesn't Legasov dare to take it away from him! And yet Valery gives out that tragic half-smile of his – _'Oh, but Boris, we're all going to die anyway'_ – and it's the final nail in the coffin of Shcherbina's patience. The volcano of a man erupts, and his words are lava, and his body is fire as he let's out a low growl and pulls Legasov even closer, fingers still clasping the fabric of his jacket.

  
“Is it too much to ask, Valera?”, he repeats, and lets go of the jacket to grab Legasov by the shoulders, down his arms, finally pressing his fingers into the other man's thighs.

  
Perhaps, he had a shot too much. Perhaps, it's the sleepless nights that are now playing the joke with him. Or, maybe, it's the feeling of being alive that chose the curious bodily way to manifest. Whatever it is, Deputy Chairman Shcherbina sucks in the air, looks into those wide-opened eyes and nearly smashes his own face into Legasov's. It is a surprise, how fast their lips find each other, and how Valery's mouth opens up a little with a small _'Oh...'._

  
He hasn't done it with anyone for long years, especially not like that, but the body remembers what's it like, to suppress resistance and establish dominance. Boris pushes Legasov towards the table, and Valery is now made to sit on the desk. Shcherbina makes his way between the other man's thighs, very much like he pushed the glass between his hands just a few moments back – _'Fucking take it already'_. He can't tell if Legasov grabs him back to keep his balance or because of other reasons, but somehow the way he invitingly opens up his mouth suggest the latter.

  
It may very well be that this is better than the untaken shot.

  
The kiss breaks when Shcherbina pulls back, and for a moment Valery looks uncomprehending, offended even. Well, decades in policy help develop a very high level of sensibility. Boris can smell the interruption in the air. He barely has a moment to regain his composure when a soldier enters.

  
“I'm sorry to bother you, Deputy Minister, but... it is the miners”.

  
And so they go to see the miners, and it is not a joyful sight, and Shcherbina has to follow his own advice and be honest: he doesn't know if they will be looked after. He doesn't know if any of them will be looked after. Chances are, none if them will be.

  
They return to the mobile office in silence. As Shcherbina sees the two glasses, still full and standing on the table, he suddenly feels the weight of it all crushing his shoulders. It is his turn to sit on the desk, and Legasov lands next to him.

  
They sit in silence for what seems like a long time. Then there is a timid touch – a mere brush of one man's fingertips against another man's skin. Legasov traces little circles on Boris' hand with his little finger. As Shcherbina turn to look at him, he can't help but notice a boyish blush on Valery's cheeks. Legasov gives his hand a gentle squeeze but to no use. The moment is ruined. Shcherbina reaches for his glass, pours the vodka down in one smooth gulp, puts the glass back with a low thud, and leaves, taking the bottle with him.

  
He is woken up by a soft knock – more like a scratch, really. He opens the door to find Legasov on the threshold of his hotel room. The man is wearing his pajama bottoms and a white undershirt, his hair unruly and his eyes squinting near-sightedly without the glasses. For a moment they just stand there, looking at each other. Next, Sherbina makes way, and Legasov walks inside, stopping after a few steps and turning around just as the Deputy Chairman soundlessly closes the door. Boris hasn't yet thought of what he has to say to this man, when Valery takes a step forward, and it's hard to tell who opens up first for the embrace. The only thing that is certain is that Boris' arms are now wrapped around Valery, pressing the man to his chest once more, and Legasov is all tense and reeking of desperation as he grasps the other man back and burrows his nose into the crook of Shcherbina's neck.

  
Boris is not drunk enough for that. He breaks the embrace and makes it to his desk. The luckless bottle is still mostly full. Shcherbina takes a swig right out of it. Next, he takes a glass, fills it and takes it back to Legasov who is still standing where he's left, shifting from one bare foot to another. He takes the glass and whips the vodka off. Shcherbina pours another one right away. And one more. He can make out Valery's face in the darkness now, and he sees the other man close his eyes and move his lips in silent count:

  
“One, two, three...”.

  
Upon reaching ten, Valery Legasov opens his eyes, shifts forward, tiptoes and kisses Shcherbina on the mouth.

  
The heat is there again, building up in the stomach, spreading though the groins, and Boris lets it be. They clinch. They kiss. And whenever one of them feels the vodka wearing out, they take a gulp.

  
At some point, Legasov lets out a small moan and tries to break free.

  
“The bugs”, he whispers.

  
“Fuck the bugs”.

  
And once more, after yet another kiss:

  
“Tomorrow's meeting...”

  
“Fuck the meeting”.

  
“But I'm...”

  
“Fuck you”.

  
“But you're...”

  
“And fuck me. Shut up and drink”.

  
Legasov shuts up. Legasov drinks. Legasov reaches for another kiss.

  
Legasov keeps silent on their way to Moscow, nervously playing with his tie. And on the way back to Chernobyl Legasov sleeps on Shcherbina's lap.

 


	4. Family Matters

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As both men are due for a medical check-up on the order of the General Secretary, Shcherbina tries to steal a few hours of normality.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the characters are purely fictional and no disrespect to the real people is meant. HBO's Chernobyl is an AU, you guys. 
> 
> There is a missing scene from the original script (ep. 5) when Legasov visits Shcherbina, and their daughter makes them tea. The real Shcherbina has been a widower for a couple of years before the Chrnobyl ordeal began, so I'm going with that - family, but no wife. Legasov is sooo single (which is crystal clear from how he's shown in the series). 
> 
> Special shout-out goes to Sasha @mycravatundone for letting me use his idea of Legasov's cat being called Boris. Legasov adresses him with a formal 'you'. 
> 
> As usual, see the rest of the chapter for some snippets of Soviet culture. 
> 
> Feel free to comment, your feedback fuels the chapters to come:)

**Moscow, June 1986**  
  
“You're invited for dinner tomorrow night”, Shcherbina says as the helicopter gains height. They are on yet another trip to Moscow, only this time there will be no meetings to attend, no reports to deliver and no celebratory speeches (the exact degree of celebration always has to be carefully adjusted to the expectations set by Gorbachev's  face and Charkov's gaze behind his shady glasses). Instead, there will be hospitals, and nurses drawing blood samples, and long medical appointments at governmental clinics. They are both due for a medical check-up on the order of the General Secretary. 

  
Those weeks are taking their toll on both of them. Legasov smokes more and barely lets food touch his lips, Shcherbina drinks less and, on a couple of occasions, finds it difficult to hold his vodka. Both of them are tip-toeing to the borderline of a sleeping disorder. On some days they don't even bother going back to the hotel and work the night away at the site. Other nights a car takes them to 'Polissya', and more often than not Legasov can't even make it to his room without stumbling on his way. As for Shcherbina, sometimes he falls asleep as soon as his head hits the pillow, and sometimes he just stares at the ceiling trying to lie still because he knows that tossing and turning makes his insomnia worse. 

  
Then, there are nights when Valery comes to his room. Boris silently shifts to the farther side of the bed, making room for the other man, and Legasov lowers himself onto the sheets. When it happened the first time, they just lied there and listened to each other's breath becoming more even until sleep gradually took them. The second time, Valery raised his hand, and Boris was sure a touch would come but the trajectory changed, as if the younger man changed his mind, and instead the hand went under Valery's own cheek. The third time, Shcherbina hoarsely whispers,  _“There's already enough pretense in Chernobyl”_ , and from then on the kissing is back. Some nights it's wet and hot, and with a lot of tongue (but there's never more despite Boris being certain that the other man is as hard as himself). Other times it's soft and tender – Shcherbina has to learn tender but he's been a good student since the lecture on nuclear reactors. 

  
However, what happens in Chernobyl, stays in Chernobyl, and on their Moscow trips, they do not display the slightest sign of intimacy even when they are in private. So, Shcherbina is not very surprised to see Legasov's  unenthusiastic face after the invitation is made. 

  
“Dinner”, Shcherbina repeats. “My apartment. Tomorrow night”.

  
Valery gives him a cautious look. 

  
“I don't know”, he says. “I'm not much of an out-goer”. 

  
“Well, I'm not asking you out, am I? Just a family dinner. My daughter will be there. Her son, too. Her husband probably won't make it back from his shift, so...”

  
Valery purses his lips in a way that – Shcherbina knows it well by now, having learned to read the tiniest changes of the scientists' face, – is Legasov's way of politely declining. 

  
“What?” he asks, and Valery huffs, clearly not wanting to give a direct answer.

  
“Uh... I don't know, Boris. I mean... you've said it yourself, it's a family dinner, and it's hardly my place...”

  
Shcherbina gives him a saying look – and it's not saying nice things. Legasov makes another attempt:  
  
“I don't even know anyone”.

  
“You know me”. 

  
“That's not what I mean”. 

  
Shcherbina processes the answer and gives a slow acknowledging now – point taken. Then he changes seats, landing next to Legasov instead of sitting across from him. Deputy Chairman reaches into the inside pocket of his dressy smart jacket and pulls out a photograph. He brought the shot from his first visit to the capital after it became clear that Chernobyl is a song that will last. It is a full-dress family portrait taken in one of Moscow's photo studios.

  
He offers the picture to Legasov, who takes it tentatively, as if not sure what he is supposed to do next.

  
  
“That's Irina”, Boris says. “She's my youngest. The dinner is her idea, actually, she's been very eager to meet you. Her husband. The little one is Pavel, he turns six next month. You probably won't see much of him, the little rascal like s to hi de under the table and  pester everyone to give him sweets. That's Yuri and his wife, and their Lyuba. He wanted to be there, too, but he is in Yakutsk now, and I told him that duty is duty, there will be other dinners”. 

  
When Shcherbina talks about his family, a touch of fond warmness fills his voice. Legasov shifts his gaze from the photograph to its owner. Boris pretends those big soft eyes don't bother him at all. 

  
“There”, he concludes, taking the shot back and tucking it back into the safety of his pocket. “Now you know everyone, and they already know of you, so all is left is a mere formality of a personal introduction. Objection overruled, Legasov”. 

  
Valery's lips part but Boris already knows what is about to come out of that mouth and gives Legasov a preventive  _'shush_ _'_ .

  
“No excuses. Tomorrow, five o'clock. You do understand 'no excuses', don't you?”

  
There is nothing else to do for Legasov but to give a defeated nod. 

  
“Good”, Shcherbina says. “Good”. 

  
And then, after a pause: 

  
“What about you, then?”

  
“What about me?”

  
“Kids? Grandkids?”

  
“Um...”

  
Once more, Valery doesn't need to say anything for Boris to understand: there is something, right there. Something not quite public. An out-of-wedlock child? Half a dozen children, one for every city that Academician Legasov has ever delivered lectures in? Shcherbina banishes the thought as pure nonsense. What else can it be? He has not asked Legasov about his marital status, he realizes. A wife, perhaps? (The thought stings him with frustration). Is she a non-Party woman – is that the secret? A shadow of doubt crosses his mind – what if there's... well,  _a man_ ? Or worse, what is there is a non-Party man?

  
Meanwhile, Legasov seems to have made a decision. He, too, reaches into the inside of his jacket, pulls out a small notepad that he always carries around, flips through the pages and procures a smallish black-and-white shot. He offers it to Shcherbina with a shy look on his face. 

  
At first, Deputy Chairman can't quite make out what he is supposed to see. The photograph features Legasov himself, sitting in an armchair in what Shcherbina presumes to be his own apartment. Valery's right elbow is supported by an armrest, and he has his hand pressed to his brow as he is going through some papers. It takes Boris a few moments to figure it out. There is a  tabby cat spreading lazily across Legasov's lap. 

  
Ah-ha. So, definitely not a Party member – he's got that right. 

  
H e doesn't really know how is he supposed to react. It seems like Valery is dead serious in showing him the shot, so Boris  mobilizes all of his diplomacy skills and behaves the same way he would, had Legasov shown him a picture of himself with a chubby bright-eyed grandson on his lap. 

  
“Er.. so, how old is he?”

  
“A bit over ten”, Legasov says in a fond tone. “I've had him since being elected as the Associate Member of the USSR Science Academy. Picked him up from the street on my way back home on the election night”. 

  
“Ah. What's his name?”

  
Legasov darts his eyes away from Shcherbina.

  
“Boris”. 

  
“What?”

  
“The cat. His name is Boris. Boris Valerievich”.

  
It takes Shcherbina all the self-restraint in the world to keep a straight face but Legasov doesn't seem to notice. 

  
Little else is said until the helicopter lands in Moscow. There are two cars already waiting to take them to the decontamination facility – they'll be showered for nearly two hours and their clothes will be incinerated. The last Shcherbina sees of Legasov is him getting inside the car and waiving at Boris from the back seat as the car passes by and their eyes meet. 

  
The very same black Volga with executive plates picks Legasov up the next day and takes him to a neat brick-built tower-block. The driver in military uniform escorts the scientist to the door – Shcherbina can hear the footsteps going down as he opens the door to greet a very shy Legasov who looks almost as misplaced as Boris remembers him from their first meeting. 

As per the unwritten protocol of Soviet hospitality, Valery doesn't arrive empty-handed, and Shcherbina approvingly raises his eyebrows at a bottle of Armenian cognac. It is next to impossible to find any alcohol at the times of Prohibition, save along the good stuff. 

  
“It was a present”, Legasov answers the silent question, and for the next ten minutes the atmosphere mellows out as they engage into a small debate on which profession is the most rewarding when it comes to customary thank-you bottles of cognac and boxes of chocolates (surgeons score first, academia makes it to the top five). They try the cognac, and the Crimean wine, and some really good vodka, and it all goes so well with the food, and everything feels so wonderfully  _normal_ that by the time the family discreetly leaves the two of them in the living room, the tension is nearly gone. Legasov asks for permission to smoke. Shcherbina gestures to the balcony and, after some hesitation, follows the man. They share a comfortable silence, looking at the sky as the sunset paints it in unimaginable hues of crimson and purple. This part of the city is unusually silent, and Boris takes a long deep breath, filling his lungs with quiet. He still prefers the colorful views  of his native Ukraine to the boastful glory of the capital but still, the view touches his heart. 

  
“It's beautiful”, Valery says. “Thank you”. 

  
It is nearly two o'clock when they part, and not a single word is said about Chernobyl, or the doctors and the blood tests – as if their lives actually do not consist of Chernobyl and blood tests, but wine, food, stories and sunsets over Moscow. 

  
The very same protocol dictates that Legasov must arrange a return visit, but Boris is not too hopeful. The visit happens nevertheless when he gets a phone call summoning them both back to the disaster site as soon as possible. The helicopter will be ready in three hours, and would comrade Shcherbina pick Professor Legasov up on his way to the boarding deck? 

  
The first thing Shcherbina notices as Valery opens the door is the smell of slightly burned food and a stained apron Legasov is wearing over his everyday clothes. Didn't they warm him? 

  
They didn't. Valery spends several hectic moments trying to finish his lunch, light up a cigarette, put the kettle on ( _“Tea?” - “Well, they are not expecting us until four” -_ just a few more minutes of normal life ) and collect at least some of his notes from a kitchen chair so that Shcherbina will have somewhere to sit. As soon as the chair is ready to welcome the weight of the Deputy Chairman's body, there is a quiet  _'meow'_ , followed by an already familiar cat who jumps onto the cleared surface. His eyes peer at Shcherbina, and the look on the furry face is the one of established dominance.

  
“Boris, no!” - Shcherbina gives an involuntary start before he realizes that the words are meant for the animal. “I said, no. Get off”.

_'The hell he will'_ , Shcherbina thinks. It's all too clear who is the master of the house. 

  
“Excuse him”, Legasov pants as he grabs the cat gently from beneath the belly and lowers him to the floor. “He is not used to... Boris Valerievich, what did I just tell you?”

  
The cat attempts another jump, and Shcherbina just shakes his head, processing the absurdity of the situation: here is one of the most brilliant minds in the world who is about to return to the most dangerous place on Earth, and what is he preoccupied with? Chasing a cat off a chair. Finally, both of the men are seated. Shcherbina's namesake is quick to take a position on Legasov's lap and, when nestled cozily, give the Deputy Chairman another look of supremacy. 

  
“Well, I wasn't going to sit _there_ anyway”. Shcherbina snaps back at him and notices Legasov's cheeks blush. 

  
They sip their tea in silent agreement to prolong the scarce moments of peace for just a little bit longer. But the weight of it is already crawling back upon their shoulders – was it ever off? 

  
“ I still can't figure out how to push the debris off the roof”. Legasov says, pointing at the aerial shots of the reactor's rooftop.

  
“Bulldozers?”

  
“Too heavy. They'd fall right through”. 

  
They pause. Legasov reaches for the ashtray and mumbles a  _'Sorry'_ to the cat who is forced to jump off to the floor with a protesting meow.

  
“Lunar rovers”. 

  
“Pardon me?”

  
“Lunar rovers”, Shcherbina repeats, enjoying the look of sheer amazement that is spreading across Legasov's face.  _'Did you think you have a monopoly on audacious ideas, comrade Professor?'  
_

“They are light”, Legasov confirms. “If we cover them with lead, it is possible that they can withstand radiation. But... Oh, come on, Boris, are we even serious?”

  
Shcherbina nods. 

  
“A lunar rover?” Valery repeats, still not able to wrap his head around the thought of it. “Is that a real thing?”

  
His face bears such a mixture of hope and disbelief that Boris can't help a smug grin finding its way onto his face. 

  
“The whole of the Soviet economy is at my disposal. I will get you a lunar rover, Legasov”.

It is Valery's smile after he sees the rover clearing the first meters of Katya, that Shcherbina will carry in a secret corner of his soul for the rest of his life – a hesitant boyish smile, the first one in over four months. The smile is a promise. The smile is a lucky charm telling them that at the end it may all turn out not too horrible. 

  
Nobody seems to care when Deputy Chairman Shcherbina throws his arms around Professor Legasov, pulling him close with a burst of joyful laughter. They may as well stand there, arms wrapped around each other's shoulders, till the rest of the days.   


 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are curious to imagine, what sort of a house might the fictional Shcherbina live in, here's the thread on the housing for high-ranking Party officials with some photos - I've had them in mind while making Legasov go all the way up with a bottle of cognac in his hand:)  
> https://www.skyscrapercity.com/showthread.php?t=851744
> 
> The mid-80s in the Soviet Union were under Gorbachev's prohibition law. It was very difficult to find any booze but people managed to find it anyway (hence, in Chernobyl smuggled vodka was used as currency that granted next to limitless possibilities).
> 
> Up to this day it is customary to bring a thank-you gift of a bottle of alcohol (cognac is the usual choice) and a box of chocolates to someone who helped you - or even did a good job as per their duties (and even if you payed them for that). People bring such gifts to doctors, teachers, clerks... Nobody sees it as a bribe, mind you. It's just something you do:)


	5. Nothing Normal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I was really hoping you would be less drunk”, he repeats. “But it seems like we don't have the luxury of waiting for you to sober up”.
> 
> “To do what?”
> 
> “You and I are going to fuck”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, the characters are purely fictional and no disrespect to the real people is meant. HBO's Chernobyl is an AU, you guys.
> 
> Well, so much for the "Well, there'll probably be some UST but I don't think these two are going to have sex" thing. I regret nothing. 
> 
> Thanks for your feedback, guys, it means tons:)

**Chernobyl, September 1986**

  
  
Boris Shcherbina carries these times like faded snapshots in a lead-coated safe-box that is his heart. It is on a rare occasion that he unlocks the box and lets it shower him in what used to be. Sometimes the memories give him the sense to go on, other times they strip him off the last reason to do so.

  
There is, however, one reminiscence that is never summoned. Had he tried to, it would probably come blurry, warped by alcohol vapor and cigarette smoke. He never tries – never wants to. This one comes and goes by its own will, never by daylight but when Boris is asleep and least protected by the power of self-control.

  
In his dreams, it always starts with him breaking into the wooden cabinet at the reception and grabbing a key to one of the empty rooms on the uninhabited top floor. The key gets jammed in the lock, and Shcherbina jiggles it frantically until the piece of metal breaks in his hand, leaving him with the hear while the body is stuck in the keyhole. Boris gnarls and gives the door a heated push with his shoulder. And again. And again – until the flimsy lock can't withstand the blows any longer.

  
The first thing that turns up on his way is a chair. Shcherbina grabs it by the stile and sends the piece of furniture flying across the room. It hits the wall, knocking off a cheap framed print. It's not enough. Shcherbina comes up to the chair, picks it up again and keeps hitting it against the wall until all that remains in his hand is just a rail. He throws it away and grabs the desk lamp, yanking the cord out of the socket, - it is next in the row for annihilation.

  
Six hours ago the German robot went dead, of which Deputy Chairman Shcherbina informed the Central Committee in a rather unruly way. He yelled so hard that bits of spit were flying out of his mouth, and he kept slamming the plastic body of the field telephone very much like he has been slamming the chair just seconds ago, wanting it to break into the tiniest pieces.

Four hours ago the three of them – Legasov, Tarakanov and himself – were in the tent, going over and over the same things: the debris has to be cleared, otherwise there are two Hiroshima bombs every hour, hour after hour.

  
Thirty minutes ago he made it to 'Polissya' after the longest round of phone calls (the new set was installed right away), asking for something that makes lunar rovers and the whole stock of liquid nitrogen in the Soviet Union obscure in the light of this new demand: they need a rough estimate of four thousand men whose life expectancy will be cut in half in the best-case scenario and the remaining years will be most likely fed to cellular degradation of their weakening bodies.

  
It took him less than half an hour to get the drunkest he's ever been in his entire life. At first, vodka seems to have no effect whatsoever but when Boris tries to rise, his legs can barely hold him.

  
And now, he is destroying things, one by one, but it brings no relief. His shoulder is on fire, so is his chest. His throat is clenched, he is nearly suffocating, not being able to either push the air out of his lungs, nor suck it in. It feels like there is a big hot sticky clot in his throat, and Shcherbina folds up in a feat of cough. He has to push his palms into the edge of the desk for stability while trying to get it all out. Only whatever he really wants to spit out, can't be cleared away from his body.

  
He does not hear the footsteps behind his back, nor does he register a foreign presence in the room – not until he hears the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor and turns to see Legasov pulling a bulky armchair to prop the door closed from the inside.

  
When the task is completed, the scientist turns to Shcherbina and folds his arms across his chest.

  
“I was hoping you would be less drunk”, he says.

  
“Well, fuck you and fuck your hopes!” Shcherbina manages, the clot still there and making it sickening to speak.

All the warmth that his voice has held for Legasov throughout these past weeks has been knocked out of him, and now he is back to where they hit it off: rage, served with newly acquired bitterness on the side.

  
“Fuck everyone's hopes! Four months of hopes – for what? Huh? I'm talking to you, Legasov, so tell me – for what? To kill more men? To be humiliated by some ball-less Kremlin wankers who spend their fucking lives in denial? To have five – five! - year to live with that?”

  
“Less”, Valery says, and Boris stares blankly. “Chances are, it is less than five years by now”.

  
With a roar of a wounded beast, Shcherbina throws himself at Legasov. His fingers – he will know later – leave bruises on the younger man pale freckled flesh as Boris squeezes his shoulders. In return, Valery reaches out and cradles Boris' face in his palms.

  
“I was really hoping you would be less drunk”, he repeats. “But it seems like we don't have the luxury of waiting for you to sober up”.

  
“To do what?”

  
  
“You and I are going to fuck”.

  
Legasov says in an unfittingly ordinary tone, and yet the word is obscene on his lips – the seemingly innocent lips that Shcherbina cannot remember swearing even once. Had Boris been less drunk, he would have surely noted the change that has always happened in Valery when they crossed the invisible aerial line on their way between the two worlds. The Moscow edition of Legasov has always been meeker, and the bravery he exhibited has always had a touch of uncertainty to it – something of an _'Pardon me, I'm going to be an obnoxious and headstrong son of a bitch for a minute, would you terribly mind?'_. The Chernobyl Legasov is more impudent, more sassy and much more daring with wanting unthinkable things.

  
“Oh, no”. Shcherbina shakes his head vehemently, throwing Valery's hands off his face, and lets out a hoarse drunken laugh. “Oh, no, no, no. We are not”.

  
“We've been half-way there, what's the difference?”

  
Boris' mind, slow and hazy from all the vodka, pauses to process the question but cannot come up with a well-reasoned answer. So he gives Legasov whatever he has:

  
“It's different. This... this is...”

  
The clot seems to swell as Shcherbina tries to bring himself to say the word _'sick'._ He can't. It would be a big fat piece of hypocrisy – and he's had his share of hypocrisy for the day.

  
“This is not normal”, he concludes.

  
Legasov's lips curl in a tragic smile. Once again, he caresses Boris' cheeks, only this time the palms don't stay – they move lower, resting on the older man's chest.

  
“We are a part of a nuclear nation, and here we are, having men in rubber suits removing radioactive debris with shovels. We live in the biggest, wealthiest country in the world, and here we are, turning a blind eye to soldiers selling stolen things from abandoned apartments for a few bottles of vodka. We proclaim to aim for the happiness of all mankind, and here we are, lying to the whole of mankind while signing a warrant for a slow ugly death to thousands of people. And the two of us? By now our bodies have absorbed so much radiation that, were we to father children, they would probably be born with fatal deformities. Our cells are mutating hour after hour, and so are our souls – from the moment we were born in the state that forces you to mutate because if you want to live here, you must adapt to its crooked reality. Look at us, Boris! There is nothing normal about us”.

  
That is when the clot in Boris' throat twitches and explodes. Two urges compete within him: to break into tears, crying the grief and anger out of his bones, and to throw up. He feels his stomach spasm, and then it is all out, both the tears and the vomit. Valery throws his arm around Boris' shoulder and nudges him gently towards the bathroom. Inside, Shcherbina is seated onto the edge of the tub. Legasov makes sure he can hold onto the sink before leaving for a few minutes and returning with a toothbrush, a tube of toothpaste and a towel. He wipes Boris' face with the wet cloth and then waits patiently as the other man brushes his teeth.

  
When this is over with, Shcherbina just throws the brush into the sink and grabs Legasov by the wrist, pulling him closer, until the other man is seated next to him. Boris doesn't let go of the hand.

  
“Why?” he asks, hoping the other man knows him well enough to unravel the full question out of a single word.

  
“Because we can”.

  
“Because we can? Huh...”

  
“Also because I think this is what we must do”.

  
“Not much of an expert opinion”.

  
“You've trusted my expert opinion so far”.

  
Again, Boris processes that.

  
“Why did you want me to be sober?”

  
“Because...” Legasov stops and nervously gulps for air like a drowning man. “Because whoever of us goes first, the other one will have this to hold on to. I know I'd want to remember it all the best I can. I was hoping, you would want that, too”.

  
The words punch Shcherbina in the stomach, and for a split second, he feels something like gratitude that he has already thrown up. This would be the wrong moment. A chill is rising up his spine, making the tine hair on his back stand on end.

  
“That's it, then? A keepsake fuck because we've got nothing better to do as we wait for a suicide squad to be delivered to our doorstep?”

“Do you need other reasons?”

  
Shcherbina reaches out to cup Valery's chin in his hand, and he is not too gentle.

“How about because you want to?”

  
Valery's hand covers his own as he looks Boris in the eye.

“Oh, but don't you know?” he says.

Be it the stress, or the vodka, or the effects of nearly five months in the vicinity of the open core of a nuclear reactor, but they neither of them can get it up for nearly half an hour. At some point, it seems that the whole enterprise is doomed. Boris plants an awkward and very chaste kiss on Valery's collar bone and says, trying his best to keep some dignity at least in his voice:

“We don't have to...”

“Oh, shut up”, Valera snaps at him, both his voice and his hands trembling as he impatiently licks his index and middle fingers, and it all goes, well, relatively better from then on. It takes a while until Valery's fingers find the right angle but eventually that does the trick, and as soon as Boris is hard, the power balance changes – Boris is not sure he can quite bring himself to repeat the fingering thing, so he goes straight for it despite the muffled whimper coming from another man.

At first it feels like he would never come – it has happened to him before, and he can recall it to be a rather frustrating experience for both parties. There is aching tension spreading through his body but then Valera shifts under him, and it is as if the movement unlocks something. It takes Boris a few frantic thrusts to feel the muscles in his back straining and his toes curling involuntarily – a sure sign of an upcoming orgasm. He grabs Valery by the hair as he comes.

The last thing he remembers before passing out is Valera's loud breathing, chest going up and down, and the fast pounding of his heart against Boris' cheek.

He wakes up before dawn (old habits can't be killed even by a severe hangover) to find Valery awake and staring at the ceiling. It takes Boris a few seconds to recall the events that lead them to this arrangement. His head is splitting with headache and it feels like a herd of horses spent the night in his mouth. Despite that, he can remember that there was a very important issue that remains unsolved from yesterday's night. Something that had to be taken care of... Ah.

“Did you...”, Shcherbina begins, but his voice breaks and he has to start anew. “Did you... you know? Last night?”

Uncomfortable silence speaks louder than words, and Shcherbina lets out a guilty _'I see'_.

“I can take care of my own needs”, Valery tries to sound reassuring.

“I would very much like to see that”, it is meant as a joke to defuse the very palpable tension, only it isn't, and Boris' unsteady hands begin to search for the opportunity of redemption.

“Go take a shower first”, Valery shakes his head. “Not the last chance for awkward mediocre sex in your life”.

Even in his dreams, Boris Shcherbina never comes up with a witty answer.

 


	6. Not Entirely Merciless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They do, however, get to have one beautiful day before the trial. The city is washed with bright sunlight and there is already a promise of summer in the air. It's an abomination to waste a day like that, and Shcherbina does the unthinkable: he reschedules his afternoon meetings and shows up at Valery's door to announce that the car is waiting to take them to VDNKh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As this fic is being wrapped up, I'd still like to point out that the characters are purely fictional and no disrespect to the real people is meant. 
> 
> As far as my research goes, it really was by chance that Legasov turned out to be on the Chernobyl Committee. It could have been another scientist had Legasov been not avaliable at the moment. 
> 
> I have no further notes regarding the text itself but I want to thank all of you, guys, for reading, leaving kudos and commenting. Your feedback has been the fuel to power up the story that was planned as a quick write-it-down but ended up devouring two weeks of my life, thinking it over non-stop and making notes wherever I go. Cheers to all of you and love to Chernobyl fandom. You are the best.

**Vienna-Moscow, March 1987**  
  
  
Now they have this: a shared hotel bed in Vienna – their first shared bed after Chernobyl. Tomorrow the whole scientific world will know the name of the Soviet scientist Valery Legasov, the man in the spotlight, while the Soviet bureaucrat Boris Shcherbina will dutifully remain outside of that spotlight, his whole presence in Vienna meant to comply with a single goal: so that Valery will know he is not alone in this. Neither of them was ever alone in this, even before they were both aware of the fact (which took a while), and things are certainly not changing now – not ever, if Boris has anything to do with it, not while he is still breathing.

  
Which, by the way, is getting more challenging day by day.

  
So is getting used to life which only half a year ago was the only one they knew – the real thing, the only life there could be! - and now feels more like a warped substance of a dream, the kind you have after drinking a glass too much or eating something utterly unhealthy right before you go to bed.

  
It took a special order from the General Secretary himself to get them both away from the disaster site for good – neither agreed to leave until the last monstrous piece of concrete was in its place, sealing the sarcophagus over the reactor building. Shcherbina nearly broke another phone when Ryzhkov called to pass on the General Secretary's verdict: immediate evacuation.

  
“The fucker says, _'Think what the radiation is doing to your health'_ ”, Shcherbina roared as Legasov watched him jamming his fist into the telephone. “And I say, _'Now you tell me?! In fucking November, you son of a bitch?!'”_.

  
“It's not only about the works, though”, Valery said after a while. “Is it?”

  
“Of course it's about the works”, Shcherbina answered but his head shook a definite _'no, it's not'_.

  
It's about the same thing that makes uniformed men, fresh from Afghanistan, volunteer to Chernobyl. One cannot imagine hell until it knocks at your doorstep, but when you let it in, it doesn't take much for hell to become the new normal. Both Shcherbina and Legasov have unlearned normal and now find it barely possible to learn it back – not with their bodies giving in to the slow decay (it has already begun to show, with the subtle aging to their faces and noticeable thinning to their hair), and their minds...

Well, as for their minds, they make a silent pact: only one of them at a time is allowed to cross the borderline of despair, and whoever does it, has the full presence and support of the other man. As the Vienna trip is approaching, Valery is the one who takes the weight of the world on his shoulders, and Boris knows he must stand to be the rock and the safe harbor. It should have been wearing him out, only it doesn't. He actually manages to melt his own worries in his care for Valery and makes use of a much-needed distraction from the scarlet blotches on immaculately white handkerchiefs.

  
When Legasov is not too busy with balancing out his executive position at the Kurchatov and his work on the Vienna report, and Shcherbina is not supervising gas fields in Orenburg or power plants in the Caspian Sea region, they meet. There is always a copious dinner at Boris' apartment, while Valery's kitchen is the place to consume gallons of coffee. Sometimes they go for a slow walk, always with one or two of Charkov's men at their heels ( _'For your own protection – comrade Legasov is now the most valuable asset of Soviet science, don't you know?'_ ). Their shoulders nearly touch as they walk, just like they used to in the abandoned park in Pripyat. Apart from the ceremonial handshakes, it is a rare opportunity for physical contact. Not touching each other is unnatural, and it has less to do with desire and more with them gradually growing into each other. Deprivation of touch feels like a corporeal trauma when the wholesomeness of the body is broken and a part of it is malfunctioning.

  
Sometimes they hold hands when they visit each other.

  
“You are like an old married couple”, Shcherbina's daughter jokingly notices as she walks on them with a tea tray.

  
They both blush – to think there's still something that can make them blush! - and fight the awkwardness back by arguing about the possible division of chores in their unlikely common household. Boris will cook (“ _Because I like to and I'm pretty skillful at it, and also because you can't cook shit, comrade Academia”_ ) and Legasov will do the dishes ( _“Because it helps thinking, I've come up with some of my best ideas while doing the dishes” – “You use, like, what, two plates a day, tops?” - “Oh, I usually wait for a couple of weeks until it piles up” – “I weep for Soviet science”_ ), the rest goes to the house aid.

  
That night they stay together until some ungodly late hour and neither is willing to say goodbye first as they halt on the threshold.

  
“Stay”, Shcherbina says.

  
Legasov mournfully shakes his head, and the two of them end up in a bear hug that lasts for some good fifteen minutes. It is the first embrace since their last night in Pripyat.

  
The second one takes place here and now, in Vienna. As Boris's broad chest is pressing against Valery's hot back, everything falls back in its place. Everything is just the way it is supposed to be: the two of them, exhausted and unsure of the day to come, but nevertheless obliged to speak boldly while being aware of the cost of their words. This they can. This they know. This they have perfected.

  
The question is, what comes next when this is no longer needed of them? Neither is too eager to find out.

  
They do not get much privacy after that night, not with Valery's face making it to the first pages of major European newspapers and TV-screens, not with interpreters and the press following them everywhere, not with people recognizing Legasov on the streets and coming up to shake his hand or ask a question. Shcherbina is due on yet another trip as soon as they return, and Legasov will probably be kept busy with the upcoming RBMK reform, and both of them will be working on their court statements, so chances to see each other eye to eye before the trial are slim.

  
They do, however, get to have one beautiful day before that. The city is washed with bright sunlight and there is already a promise of summer in the air. It's an abomination to waste a day like that, and Shcherbina does the unthinkable: he reschedules his afternoon meetings and shows up at Valery's door to announce that the car is waiting to take them to VDNKh*.

  
Be it the warmth, or the cheerful blue of the sky, or the merry sparkles of sunshine in the waters of the Friendship of Nations fountain, but for a while, they seem to indulge into the carelessness of the moment. There is an ice-cream cart, and Shcherbina buys four chocolate-covered ice-creams on a stick. Two he gives to Legasov with a short _'Hold it for a second'_ and the other two he takes to a couple of youngish men dressed in way too casual clothes that have been keeping their distance for a while now. The older one looks offended by the offering but takes in nevertheless while the younger one actually smiles. Valery gives out a soft chuckle when Boris returns and reaches for his _escimo_.

  
“You are spoiling them, Boris. Next thing you know, they will refuse to perform their duties unless you give them a treat”.

  
They find a sit by the fountain and bite into their ice-cream, both being cautious not to let it drip on the trousers.

  
“Do you know it could have been someone else?” Shcherbina asks.

  
“Mm?”

  
“The day they made me the head of the Commission, I was supposed to find a scientist to include on the team. It had to be someone knowledgeable of RBMK reactors, having authority in scientific circles and also being available at 7 am on a Saturday morning. I was told you fit the criteria”.

  
“Oh. An old bachelor's life has its advantages, I guess – you are always available”.

  
“If by advantages you mean getting to visit an exposed nuclear reactor and then spending half a year bathing in fuck knows how many thousands of roentgen, then yes, Valera, it certainly does”.

  
Legasov can't help but notice the bitterness in Shcherbina's voice and gives him a gentle nudge with his shoulder.

  
“So, was it by chance, then? Me?”

  
“It was. Does it...”

  
Boris' breath gets caught up in a fit of cough that he tries to suppress. So far he's been successful at that.

  
“Does it make you...”

  
“...sad?”

  
“Angry. Knowing that you could have overslept that phone call and I would have had to appoint another man on the Committee?”

  
Legasov pauses for a minute, then he shrugs.

  
“I detest the thought of you getting drunk and sharing that miserable squeaky hotel bed with Velikhov or Aleksandrov”. *

  
Perhaps, it is too good a day to spoil it with truth. Perhaps, Boris should take Valery's evasive joke of an answer and make peace with it. They finish their ice-cream and take a long silent stroll that is supposed to end by Shcherbina's black Volga but doesn't, as the two of them keep putting one foot in front of another until it is clear that Boris is walking Valery home under the watchful eye of their escort. The more steps they take, the less of the day lies ahead, and Shcherbina does his best to keep his demons – the cough and the thoughts of what's to come – on a short leash.

  
“They want to award me the Hero of the Soviet Union”, Legasov says out of blue.

  
“Oh?”

  
“Also a promotion to the director of the Kurchatov Institute”.

  
“That one you want, don't you?”

  
“Not like that, Boris, not in this way”.

  
Shcherbina let's out a tired sigh.

  
“It is the way, Valera. I'm sorry but that's how it is”.

  
“Oh, yes. I do remember your lecture on the way it all is, comrade Deputy Minister”, Legasov tries to smile. “You were very imposing”.

  
“You were scared”.

  
“Impressed, more like it. You are an impressive man”.

  
“You have chocolate in the corner of your mouth”.

  
Not a single word about Chernobyl is said from then on until they reach the house. Valery digs into his pocket and fishes out the keys along with the cigarette pack. He light one and takes a long drag.

  
“I will probably not see you again till the trial”, he says. Now a question – a statement.

  
Shcherbina nods.

  
“And what's next?”

  
Shcherbina slowly shakes his head. He doesn't know. The day is rolling to its end, and as the sun is nearing the horizon, their future and all the insecurity of it begins to press upon them. It's been one day at a time ever since they were given the order to go see the reactor and report back to Gorbachev. Why should it be different now?

  
Legasov finishes his cigarette, extinguishes the butt and tucks it back into the pack.

  
“Well...” he says.

  
“Well...” Shcherbina echoes. “See you soon. Give my regards to Boris Valerievich, will you?”

“He'll be sad you didn't stop by for coffee”.

  
“Oh no, he won't”, Shcherbina chuckles.

  
They shake hands, and Legasov opens the door and steps inside the entrance hall. As Boris watches him go, a surge of turbid unease rises inside. Something is not right (isn't everything?). There are words clogging in his throat like desperate people trying to escape a burning building through a nailed-up fire exit. His body acts quicker than his mind, though, putting his foot in a perfectly polished shoe between the entrance door and the door frame. Boris Shcherbina steps inside and calls:

  
“Valera!”

  
He can see, despite the obscure light, the shape of Legasov's body freezing and then turning around. It takes Boris a mere second to cross the distance between them and throw his arms around the other man.

  
“Promise me something, will you?” he says in a muffled voice.

  
“Behave while you're not around?” Boris can feel Valery smiling into his shoulder. “Not to do anything imprudent? Not to do anything imprudent and let the KGB know?”

  
“Oh, I'm not that hopeful”.

  
Boris holds him closer and tries to compose it all together.

  
“Promise me you won't go without a fight. Promise me that when it comes for you, you'll stand against it, and kick, and fight, and do whatever it takes to stay alive – until it comes for you for real. And when it does... promise you'll find it in you to accept it with dignity. And promise... promise that you'll be smart enough to tell one from another”.

  
He feels Valery's body growing tense in his embrace, muscles going stone with trouble. _'Fuck you'_ , Shcherbina says to himself. He should not have said it. He is not even sure whom the words are really meant for and whether it's Valery who must swear to first fight, then go with dignity, or is he saying it all to himself. Then he feels Legasov's arms closing around his own body.

  
Was anyone to see Deputy Chairman Boris Shcherbina's face at the moment, they would see all the tenderness in the world lighting up his face and spreading far beyond, enveloping the two men into a soft cocoon and letting them be for a while, standing transfixed and amazed at something so beautiful to blossom in a dark hallway of an ugly Soviet tower-block. As the embrace is lasting, there are no further choices made yet, and no chances taken, and no paths chosen, and the future is not entirely merciless.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * VDNKh - Exhibition of Achievements of National Economy (Vystavka Dostizheniy Narodnogo Khozyaystva), a permanent trade exhibition (also an amusement park) in Moscow. Take a look at this beauty:  
> https://img.tourister.ru/files/1/8/0/7/1/6/5/4/original.jpg
> 
> * both Soviet physicists assosiated with the Kurchatov Institute.

**Author's Note:**

> * - Legasov is reciting a well-known war-time poem by Aleksandr Tvardovsky. I am quoting a translation I found online (feel free to google the full version if you like!). Now, Tvardovsky is an intriguing figure in the history of Soviet literature. He and his work used to be favored by the state but he lost the favor in the 60s, when he turned the literary magazine under his editorialship into the harbor for the "differently-minded" writers. Given that the character of Legasov is also shown balancing between the two worlds, I thought it appropriate to chose Tvardovsky's poetry for him to recite.
> 
> * - The Winter War is also known as the Russian-Finnish War, a military conflict that lasted for three months and is considered to be part of the WWII even though the USSR did not officially enter the war until 1941. The real Boris Shcherbina did fight in the Winter War (by the way, so did Tvardovsky, maybe that's how the Deputy Chairman knowns a poem of his by heart?). All the facts about the war past of both Shcherbina and Legasov are actual facts from the biographies of the real men.
> 
> * - yet another Tvardovsky poem, a different one. The translation is mine.


End file.
